


we'll get used to it

by hholocene



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:52:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hholocene/pseuds/hholocene
Summary: Vignettes of a life in Moscow. Philip/Elizabeth centric.





	1. Chapter 1

It must be 3am by the time they reach the safehouse. Arkady gives sparse instructions and then a final thanks before he leaves them. They listen on automation, agents trained to follow orders.

 

When they are finally alone, Elizabeth looks to her husband. There is sadness and regret in both their eyes. She squeezes his arm and then walks toward the bathroom.

 

.

 

Their room is small and bare. One double bed, a bedside table and and a chair in the corner, close to the window.

 

The mattress is hard and unyielding against their backs. They lie facing up at the ceiling, fingers lying side by side with centimetres between them. Both yearning yet hesitant to make contact.

 

She wants to say something but she has never favoured words. She lets out a sigh instead. And then she feels fingers graze against hers, the tentative attempt to entwine their hands together.

 

She obliges.

 

She tilts her head, takes in the profile of the man assigned to be her husband. A fake marriage, now painstakingly real.

 

“We had a fight,” Elizabeth says quietly, voice small and uncharacteristically delicate.

 

Philip frowns slightly, confused.

 

“Yesterday,” Elizabeth clarifies.

 

He searches his memory for a fight. They had hardly spoken yesterday, he thinks. _Paige_.

 

She can’t bear to say her name out loud.

 

Philip turns on his side, looks carefully at his wife.

 

“What happened?” he asks, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

 

Elizabeth looks wary, heartbroken in a way he has not seen her before.

 

“She found out about how we used sex to get information.”

 

Philip’s frown grows deeper. He wants to ask how.

 

“I,” Elizabeth begins, eyes flickering away in doubt. “She worked it out. I couldn’t convince her.”

 

“That’s not why she--” Philip hesitates, the ending of that sentence too painful to recount.

 

“You don’t know that,” Elizabeth replies quietly.

 

“She’ll understand, in time,” he points out.

 

“The FBI will be all over her,” Elizabeth worries.

 

Philip sighs, her concerns mirroring his own.

 

“How much does she know?” he asks.

 

“Not that much,” she mulls it over. “Not enough, I think.”

 

“She’ll be okay. Stan will help,” Philip assures.

 

Elizabeth hums noncommittally, her mind still stuck in thought.

 

“At least they’ll be together,” she whispers.

 

Philip smiles sadly.

 

“Yes,” he agrees, equally muted.

 

She remembers when she thought having two children was a mistake. When a second child had merely meant more time at home and less time in the field. She shuts her eyes, willing the memory to fade.

 

She turns to her side, her hand still holding Philip’s.

 

She’s grateful when he comes closer, holding her firmly.

 

. . .

 

Arkday returns two days later. They drive to another safe-house, further outside the city.

 

He tells them, it’s not yet safe. The KGB is in turmoil, various factions vying for power.

 

They need to lay low, limit their visits outside.

 

“What happened to Oleg Burov?” Philip asks Arkady.

 

A grim expression takes hold of Arkday.

 

“The FBI still have him.”

 

“Are you doing anything about it?” Philip questions critically.

 

“Things are tough now,” Arkady responds. “I can’t do anything until things are resolved here.”

 

“He risked everything,” Philip accuses.

 

“I know,” Arkady says sternly.

 

Philip looks aghast, but says nothing more.

 

His wife watches him closely, her eyes contemplative.

 

They haven’t spoken about him spying on her since they got back.

 

An indiscretion pushed aside in the face of bigger problems.

 

.

 

Elizabeth mindlessly stirs the saucepan of boiling potatoes.

 

Philip stands to her side, chopping onions.

 

“He had a baby son,” Philip says quietly to Elizabeth.

 

“Burov?” she checks.

 

He nods, eyes trained on the chopping board.

 

“They’ll cut a deal, once they sort everything out,” Elizabeth tells him. “The Americans should be thanking him”

 

“ _If_ they sort everything out,” Philip corrects.

 

He looks at Elizabeth, lines of worry etching across his forehead.

 

“We’ll be fine,” Elizabeth affirms.

 

.

 

They eat in silence. They have so much time now. Waiting has always felt unnatural to them. Even stranger now that their purpose is waning.  

 

“I,” Philip is hesitant when he starts, “I should have told you sooner.”

 

Elizabeth’s eyes dart up, dissecting and impossible to read.

 

“Why didn’t you?” she asks.

 

Philip shakes his head. He’s unsure and afraid to upset their current balance.

 

“I didn’t know what you would do,” he answers truthfully.

 

“You thought I would tell the Centre,” she states.

 

He nods.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her again, glimpsing the hurt that flashes across her eyes.

 

“Why did you change your mind?”

 

“I didn’t, I _don’t_ want to lie to you.”

 

He looks at her with unabashed sincerity.  An earnestness that once used to irritate her, long ago in a distant lifetime.

 

She can’t even imagine a life without him now.

 

She stands to clear her plate. His words linger with her.

 

She hears him stand up and then walk towards her. He takes his familiar position by her side, towel in hand, ready to dry the dishes.

 

“Are you still angry?” he asks her.

 

She runs a tired hand through her hair. The thought of his betrayal still stings but it no longer cuts as deep as it first did. She thinks of Chicago, his unwavering commitment to helping her. She won’t survive without him. She knows that much now.

 

Her head turns and meets his pleading gaze.

 

“No,” she answers softly.

 

She turns the tap on, lets the water rinse the grease and hands him the first plate.

 

. . .

 

It is weeks later when Arkady finally tells them it is safe. He offers them a choice of a flats, a luxury that means little to them.

 

He gives them options for work. They could take a desk job in the KGB or join a ministerial office. The organisation is flexible, he tells them.

 

Finally, he informs them that the FBI is no longer investigating their children. They found Paige but nothing incriminating on her.

 

That is all that they know for the time being.

 

Philip and Elizabeth exhale a joint breath of relief. It is the first glimmer of good news.

 

.

 

“Where do you want to work?” Philip asks Elizabeth later.

 

“I don’t know,” she replies. “What do you want to do?”

 

“Do they need travel agents in Moscow?” he jokes.

 

There’s a trace of a smile on Elizabeth’s face.

 

“We’ve got time to decide,” he tells her. As an afterthought, he adds, “We don’t have to do the same thing.”

 

“I know,” she responds quickly and then looks down shyly.

 

“It would be nice, working together again,” she says.

 

When she looks up, she sees Philip smiling. His eyes bright.

 

. . .

 

Running was always his exercise of choice. Much like racquetball.

 

But Elizabeth joins him in the mornings now. The bitter cold is a refreshing awakener and besides, what else is there to do.

 

“It’s not a race,” Philip lightheartedly admonishes when they pause for a break. He’s more than a little out of breath.

 

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, “You scared?”

 

Philip laughs, “No, I’m not scared.”

 

They stand for a moment, taking in each other’s smiling faces. It has become a foreign sight.

 

Philip’s eyes drift to the strands of hair that have come undone from her ponytail. His hand moves, delicately tucking them behind her ear. She looks back at him, soft and serene.

 

“I’ll race you back,” she says.

 

Philip chuckles lightly, moving his hand aside.

 

“Loser makes breakfast,” he returns.

 

.

 

“What’s for breakfast?” Philip teases as they walk into their flat.

 

“What would you like?,” Elizabeth throws back.

 

He doesn’t miss the challenge in her tone.

 

“Surprise me,” he says.

 

.

 

He hears the creak of the bathroom door. The rustle of clothes dropping to the floor. The hot water steams the cubicle, he can’t make much out.

 

He waits, listens closely and anticipates.

 

The door slides behind him, and he feels her press against his back, hands coming around to his chest. He holds it there.

 

“This is cheating,” he tells her.

 

Elizabeth laughs, presses her lips against his ear.

 

“You want me to leave?”

 

Smiling, he turns slowly and brings her hands to his waist.

 

Their foreheads brush, the water sprays around them.

 

“No,” he murmurs.

 

.

 

She watches the sunlight bounce against their wedding rings. The shine is blinding.

 

She burrows deeper against his side. He adjusts his arm, letting her fit snugly.

 

“We need to file the paperwork,” Philip muses out loud.

 

She smiles against his neck.

 

_He remembered._

 

“We should go this week,” she suggests.

 

She feels Philip's hand stroke her arm, and then a gentle squeeze.

 

An affirmation, meant only for her.

 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not having a quicker update but better late than never.
> 
> A quick note about their names, at this stage of their lives in Russia I think they're still sticking with Philip and Elizabeth. My personal headcanon is they always will in private but may use Mischa and Nadezda here and there.

“He’ll be here soon,” Philip says with a gentle squeeze of her arm. Elizabeth’s eyes are focused on the stew bubbling in front of her.

 

He stands behind her, arms coming to either side of her.

 

“Smells good,” he says softly.

 

Elizabeth hums idly back. Philip’s lips find her neck, kissing her tentatively.

 

“How long till Gabriel gets here?” she checks.

 

Philip’s eyes flicker to their kitchen clock - 10 minutes.

 

Elizabeth removes Philip’s right arm, expertly moves away.

 

“Make sure it doesn’t burn,” she instructs before moving to their bedroom to get changed.

 

.

 

Elizabeth greets Gabriel at the door. The first familiar face in Moscow, it sends a rush of relief through her. 

 

She hugs him and tells him in hushed tones, “It’s good to see you.”

 

He squeezes her hand, allows her to lead him inside. 

 

“Gabriel,” Philip simply greets. There is a small smile on his face, sad and not quite trusting

 

.

 

Gabriel clears the last of his stew, gives Elizabeth an appreciative smile.

 

“That was delicious,” he says, a kind smile on his face. Elizabeth returns it and gets up to clear their plates.

 

“Some tea?” she checks, to which Gabriel nods. 

 

“I’ll do it,” Philip offers, as much for his benefit as it is for her.

 

Alone with Elizabeth, Gabriel offers her his condolences.

 

“I know that this is difficult,” he tells her, voice gentle and understanding. She is silent. She knows that Philip would scoff at his words, get angry even. She doesn’t know what to feel.

 

“It will get better,” Gabriel says.

She nods, if only out of politeness. 

 

Philip returns and his eyebrows furrow at the tension in the room. But he doesn’t question it further.

 

Gabriel stirs his tea, a touch nervous.

 

“There is something I have been meaning to discuss with you both,” he begins.

 

“What?” Philip says, instantly suspicious.

 

“It mainly concerns you, Philip. You have family here, in Moscow.”

 

There is a moment of surprise on Philip’s face, even though he has wondered about Mischa since returning. 

 

“Your brother and your son -- your other son --  are living here. If you wish to see them, it can be arranged.”

 

Philip’s jaw tightens, unsure of Gabriel’s true intent. 

 

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks tersely.

 

Gabriel sighs, almost in exasperation. 

 

“I thought it might help to see them. Despite what you may think, Philip, I am on your side.”

 

Philip looks at him sharply, vehement in his glare.

 

Seeing his clenched fist, Elizabeth touches it lightly, only for a moment. 

 

“I’ll think about it,” Philip replies.

 

Gabriel nods, deliberates for a moment.

 

“There is one more thing,” Gabriel pauses, debates for another moment. “A few years ago, Mischa tried to make contact with you. Irina left him some money and instructions on how to find you.”

 

“And did he find me?” Philip checks, the contempt already dripping.

Gabriel looks down, regretful.

 

“It was too great a risk for him to see you,” he answers.

 

“How far did he get?” Philip presses.

 

“Washington.”

 

“What did you do?” Elizabeth finally speaks up, with a distrust that for once parallels Philips.

 

“I met with him. I explained the situation to him, and I arranged for him to return home.” 

 

Philip looks to Elizabeth for a moment, then shakes his head.

 

“I think you should leave,” Philip tells Gabriel.

 

Gabriel looks to Elizabeth, who is quiet beside her husband.

 

Gabriel sighs quietly, stands slowly.

 

“I’ll get your coat,” Elizabeth says mutedly.

 

“I was trying to protect you,” Gabriel tries one last time with Philip.

 

“Protect me?” Philip repeats in disgust. “No, you were trying to protect the mission.”

They hear footsteps returning, Elizabeth walks in with Gabriel’s coat. He looks to her, a searching look of affection. Elizabeth, who was always so sure to return it, gives him a stoney look.

 

“Gabriel,” she says, handing over his coat. “The Centre is  _ never _ to make contact with our children without asking us. Do you understand that?”

 

Gabriel nods gravely.

 

“I understand,” he replies.

 

.

 

“What are you going to do?” Elizabeth asks.

 

“I don’t know,” Philip answers.  He looks to her, deep in thought. “What do you think?”

 

“I think you should see them,” Elizabeth tells him.

 

“You do?” He seems surprised.

 

“They’re your family, they would want to see you.”

 

Philip frowns, uncertain.

 

“Mischa,” Elizabeth hesitates over the name. “He wanted to see you.”

 

“That was before.”

Elizabeth ponders it for a moment and then with a confidence only she could possess, tells him, “He still would.”

 

.

 

Mischa has his father’s hair, and eyes. That’s the first thought that comes to her mind.

 

Next, is the striking resemblance to Henry. 

 

She wonders if this is what he will look like at twenty six.

 

She catches Philip’s eye across the table, and she knows the same thought has run through his mind.

 

.

 

“He’s a sweet boy,” Elizabeth says afterwards.

 

“Yeah,” Philip agrees.

 

“You can tell he’s your son,” she points out

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“He looks a lot like you, for one, and,” Elizabeth isn’t sure how to describe it. His earnest smile, the affable eagerness, it all reminds her of Philip. At least how Philip used to be, before their job wore him down.

 

“He has your sense of humour,” she says instead. Philip gives her a look, bemused and a little disbelieving. 

 

“Irina,” Philip hesitates, “She was always cheerful. She used to laugh easily, he takes after her.”

 

Elizabeth pockets this new sliver of information. 

 

She thinks about how little she knows about Irina. She was an enigma, unlike the other women in Philip’s life.

 

Martha had been painfully innocent, and lonely. Annalyse was beautiful and bored. Kimmie --  _ Elizabeth winces _ \-- she was just a child.

 

She had asked Philip once, only once, what Irina had been like. 

 

“You wouldn’t have liked her,” had been Philip’s response. 

 

“Why not?” she had pressed, irritated by his deflection.

 

“She was like me, when you first met me, except more…”

 

He had trailed off, not bothering to complete the sentence.

 

She had dropped the topic, finding herself dissatisfied with his response. 

 

Irina stikes her now as the antithesis of herself.

 

.

 

She wakes with a startle. A dream of a twisted memory, from when she and Philip had separated. 

 

She had told Henry he couldn’t watch his hockey match. He had cried, wailed about wishing  _ dad _ was here. The words had only dented her slightly.

 

Right now, she feels deeply unsettled.

 

She gets out of the bed, walks to the kitchen and reaches for the packet of cigarettes in the drawer.

 

She hesitates for a moment, remembers Henry telling her he doesn’t want to get cancer.

 

She grabs the packet anyway, tries hopelessly push the memory from her mind.

 

She’s cut down, or so she tries to justify. 

 

The cigarettes don’t soothe her like they once did.

 

Hushed footsteps creep up behind her. She doesn’t bother to look, knowing that she’ll only see Philip’s face. Bleary eyed yet full of concern. 

 

Silently, he sits across her.

 

“What happened?” he asks softly.

 

He knows she has trouble sleeping. Dreams that jolt her awake. Nightmares really, but she refuses to call them that. To say much about them at all.

 

She shrugs, half-heartedly tells him, “It’s nothing.”

 

“ _ Elizabeth, _ ” he pleads.

 

“It’s stupid,” she says in exasperation. “It was just a dream.”

 

Philip looks down for a moment, searches for the right words.

 

“I know it’s been weird day,” he says slowly.

 

Their eyes meet and a mutual understanding passes between them. 

 

“I dreamt of Henry,” she admits and exhales in agitation.

 

“You don’t have to see Mischa again if--” Philip volunteers.

 

“No, it’s not, you don’t have to do that,  _ at all _ ,” she instantly protests. “I like the kid,” she adds.

 

Philip smiles, “He was excited to meet you.”

 

Elizabeth lets out a laugh. It turns quickly to a startled sob.

 

“Henry’s always going to hate us, isn’t he?” she says. More a statement than a question.

 

Philip nods, the truth undeniable. He looks as broken as she feels. 

 

“I barely spoke to him last year, the last three years.” 

 

She wonders at what point the distant grew irreparable.  

 

Philip outstretches his hand, reaches for her own.

 

“He knew you loved him.”

 

Philip’s hands are strong, assured in its hold over her.

 

“He,” Philip stumbles, his confidence failing him for a moment. “ _ They _ will understand, eventually.”

 

She has never cared much for words. It’s a terrible American obsession: the need to fill silences with words.

 

She says nothing now, but she still listens. What else can they do, but repeat these platitudes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A third chapter is uncertain at this stage but I do want to write a little bit about them discussing Paige, so who knows, at some point I will try to update.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are most welcome. I intend to continue this, so keep an eye out.


End file.
